


Left for the Books

by CrystalBunnyz



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Gen, Sad Armin, and a worried jean, assume everyone except armin and jean are dead, do i tag major character death, how about this, i mean it doesnt actually happen in it so, no not this time, there is no romantic thing going on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 18:57:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1358311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrystalBunnyz/pseuds/CrystalBunnyz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifteen years after humanity seems to have won the war against the titans, Armin takes a walk and finds it's not nearly as peaceful as he would like it to be because every little thing reminds him of his friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Left for the Books

[based on this post](http://picturesofarmincrying.tumblr.com/post/80074757790/aniloli-picturesofarmincrying-i-bet-if-they)

The ocean was very calm today. The waves gently swept up across the white sand of the beach repeatedly, leaving traces seaweed and wiping away the traces of life walking across it. Each time it happened, new things were left behind, and the old swept away with the tides to be carried somewhere new, somewhere they could be appreciated even more because at least there, they were new and not old; something useful. The ocean kept things moving, changing, morphing; nothing would remain the same, not even on the land were there a raging storm to cause an uproar with the ocean. Such a thing had not happened in quite a while though, according to what he has read.

The books never told him that it would hurt when you came here. Of course, the books didn’t predict the future. The books only spoke of what was known then and only then, as well as in the past before them; not of what could happen after the words were written on the page. 

Aged fifteen years older than those left on the final battlefield and with visible scars splattered across his entire body from the war that most would claim humanity had won, Armin Arlert couldn’t claim that he was happy. Perhaps it was because it didn’t feel like it was a _win_ necessarily. It was hard to explain, and he hardly wanted to think about it.

He only came to this beach because it reminded him of things he held dear to his heart. It was a childish sort of thing though. He remembered talking with Eren about the things they could have seen together; the beach, the ocean, places with lava, places with only sand for as far as the eye could see.

All of the things that he could not see with his best friend.

Maybe that was the reason why he kept coming here to gather a few seashells and little things that the ocean would wash up, and maybe that would explain why he was walking back to the little town he had made his residence in with a bag around him full of a few swirling shells of mostly pastel colors, a couple of oddly shaped rocks that he was sure Eren would have loved to see, as well as a book that he kept with him to write down anything new he observed in the world; the things he needed to tell Eren about when he got back to his grave.

There wasn’t much in the grave. The only things that remained of him were a hand, a boot, and his maneuver gear that had been crushed underneath a titan’s foot. If you asked Armin though, it wasn’t a titan that had killed him. No, he had his suspicions about it.

There wasn’t much to do about it now though.

Armin hardly thought about it much anymore. It only made him angry, frustrated him, irritated him to the point that he actually had to physically calm himself down in order to keep himself from breaking down in his house because there was nothing for him to do about it, not now, not ever, because he couldn’t, not with the way his body was, not with the fact that his voice had long since lost its power, not since he lost the drive to bother with something so big, so stupidly reminiscent of the things he and his friends had done before they had all died and the entire foundation of his life had been reduced to nothing but blood and bone that couldn’t be used as such anymore because everybody was just fucking _gone_ and you can’t bring back the dead or the missing or whatever had happened to everyone, as he had long since lost track of what happened to who except for Eren and Mikasa and—

He took in a sharp but wavering breath, his only hand clutching the strap of his bag so tightly his knuckles were turning white. His feet had carried him to the village gates of their own will as his thoughts had gotten themselves caught up in a typhoon of emotion and a landslide of reality. There were reasons why he never thought about those things anymore, and there were reasons why he rarely spoke to any of his neighbors because they would ask him things that he wouldn’t want to answer, they would poke and prod and he would refuse to answer but he also hates to be rude, but it was becoming more and more difficult not to be that way because people were so fucking stupid and never took the hint that perhaps talking with them wouldn’t make anything better. It was selfish for them to think that they could make a difference to him. Nothing could. Not now. Not ever.

“Armin?”

Fuck. No. What was he just thinking? Yeah. People don’t help. Especially not Jean. He was too much like Eren. Way too much. He didn’t want to deal with this. So he did what he did best.

He kept walking.

“Armin!”

Goddammit. He could hear Jean’s wheelchair start towards him. Armin stopped walking and turned to Jean.

Jean was hardly in the best of shape. He had lost a leg to a titan before Eren had died and had been teased mercilessly about it; Mikasa had a habit of hitting him for it, but Jean didn’t seem to mind the teasing overmuch. Maybe it was just something that helped him think he was still himself; the arguing with Eren never, ever changed. Until, you know, Eren died. Then the arguing stopped and things had become quiet. Armin wondered of Jean appreciated the silence.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t hear you,” Armin lied, giving Jean a smile that would have charmed anyone else. Jean knew better though and Armin knew that; it was just frustrating and he had to try anyway.

“Where are you going?” Jean asked, eyes appraising Armin’s current state.

Armin was well aware that he looked bad but Jean didn’t need to make it so fucking obvious.

“Somewhere,” Armin replied sarcastically, a small smirk gracing his lips. He saw irritation flicker through Jean’s eyes.

“Armin,” Jean started, but Armin shook his head.

“I’m aware. You think it’s unhealthy, don’t you?” He asked, head cocking to the side.

“Well, I’d hardly consider it a healthy habit.”

Armin huffed, not deigning to respond. He knew that it wasn’t healthy to cling quite like this. He didn’t care though.

“Everyone is worried about you,” Jean said, “You aren’t talking to anyone and you haven’t come out of your house in three days.”

“Well, I’m out now, aren’t I?” Armin asked defensively.

“Yes, you are, but that doesn’t change much, you know. You’re getting thin,” Jean paused. “Goddamn, why do I have to be the one to tell you these things? Aren’t you supposed to be smart?”

“And aren’t you supposed to have both legs?”

“Armin,” Jean had said it as a warning.

“Just leave me alone, Jean. I’m fine. If you’re having a hard time believing it, take your bitching somewhere else, like to someone who cares,” Armin finally said, turning on his heel and starting away from him. He didn’t wait to hear his response before he started walking, but he was sure he heard him mutter _fucking brat_ under his breath. Armin didn’t care. He really, really didn’t care.

Putting the conversation out of his mind, he forced one foot in front of the other as he walked through the small village. Nobody bothered to stop and talk to him. He was fine with that. He didn’t think he could take another conversation at the moment without snapping completely.

Following the path a little ways out of the village and up to the winding road that would lead to the capitol hadn’t been easy. Though he hated it, he kept thinking about what Jean had said. This wasn’t healthy. He knew that. He fucking knew that visiting the grave this often wasn’t necessarily a bad thing; it was just clinging so much that was the thing that was apparently worrying him. He didn’t need anyone to worry about him. He didn’t want anyone to worry about him. Not ever again. That was what got Mikasa killed, after all. He didn’t dwell on that bit long.

He walked up the dirt road until he got to the large tree he had buried the remnants of Eren under all those years ago. He had planted a sapling of a great oak a few feet behind where he buried him, and now it has reached a height much larger than his own; then again, that wasn’t hard. He knelt down and brought the few seashells in his bag out of it and sat them down on the grass above Eren’s remains.

“These are a different color than what I brought you a few days ago, Eren,” He murmured, smiling slightly as his calloused fingers traced the outline of one of the shells. “I think you would appreciate the color of this one in particular. It actually looks a lot like what I remember your eyes being.”

He fell into silence for a long moment, staring down at the shell in his hand before he dropped it on the grass.

“I miss you,” He whispered. “I miss everyone. I miss being able to talk to you, and I miss the way you and Jean argued, and I miss Mikasa and I just don’t like being alone. It’s not the same without you. It hasn’t been. It’s been fifteen years, you know. It’ll be fifteen tomorrow.”

His breath hitched and his hand reached up to stop the tears that were prickling at his eyes. He could hardly stop the sob that broke through his lips, and he didn’t care to. This was the only place he let himself weep openly. It was the only place he felt safe enough to, like Eren and Mikasa were both here even though only Eren had anything left of his body. It was growing harder and harder for him to get oxygen in his lungs through the broken wails and failed attempts to gasp for breath. His only hand clutched his face and his other arm reduced to a nub was wrapped as much as it could be around himself in an attempt to comfort himself; a fruitless effort.

Moments passed by until a chilled silence overcame him. His hand fell down onto the bark of the tree that had grown so proudly next to his best friend’s grave, swollen, red eyes downcast on the green grass and the shells lining the ground with his bag. A small, broken smile crossed his lips.

“I don’t know if there will be a sixteenth.”

**Author's Note:**

> Frustrated depressed older Armin is a good kind of Armin, wouldn't you say?


End file.
